


Alloys

by InRetrospect



Category: Havemercy Series - Jaida Jones & Danielle Bennett
Genre: M/M, shut up they totally go to obscure art galleries on the weekends, they're hipster like that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2013-05-28
Packaged: 2017-12-13 05:35:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/820596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InRetrospect/pseuds/InRetrospect
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hal's musings of a past art gallery, modern art, and Royston.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>“Oh,” he’d said then, “It’s Thremedon.”  And it was, her three circles in melted steel nestling the palace in the center, if you tilted your head enough.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Alloys

**Hal**

Once, I remember, Royston and I had gone to an art gallery in the upper part of town, in one of the estates near th’Esar’s palace. I can’t remember what it had been for, exactly- whether Caius had bullied us into going, or Royston was maintaining his circle of acquaintances, or we’d just spontaneously found something to do on a Saturday afternoon- but it had hardly been an excursion worth noting, I suppose. The collection had been modest, mostly style over substance, but the sculpture garden had been rather nice, even from memory. Especially one piece, awkwardly situated near a corner, perched on a white box and a ‘do-not-cross’ line on the floor. Trying to get a better view of the marble figures, I suspect, Royston had nearly backed into it and pretended he had been going to look. I had followed after, a little more decorously and much more intrigued.

It was more modern than the others, seemingly a lump of spiraled metal on an ashen grey tile, but it had looked somehow familiar. “What does it remind you of?” I’d asked Royston, trying to puzzle it out. “I can’t quite seem to put my finger on it.”  
“I believe the sign says, ‘Do not touch the artwork’,” Royston had quipped back, before leaning a little closer himself. “Oh,” he’d said then, “It’s Thremedon.” And it was, her three circles in melted steel nestling the palace in the center, if you tilted your head enough. I’d looked up to beam at him, but his brow was furrowed again, nose almost brushing the metal.  


“What is it?” I’d asked, tilting my head.  


Pulling back, Royston had blinked at me, then nearly flushed. “Oh, it’s- it just smells different,” he’d explained furtively. “Than regular metalsmithing, that smells like a fast burn, and this one just seems… slower. Less explosive, I suppose.”  


I’d smiled encouragingly, trying to act casual as I leaned closer and rested a hand on Royston’s arm, as if I was steadying myself for balance. We’d been a lot more hesitant with each other then, not quite sure how to put our hands on each other. Looking back from a time where I know Royston’s body better than I do my own, it seems odd- mine has always been a permanent stasis between frightened teenager and labouring grandfather, never quite sure which one fit better and often more volatile than my moods. Royston’s, though, he had crafted to suit him, a cultured and steely exterior which he never had to remove. Something almost childish shone through on occasion, like when he looped pen designs across his hand or soot ran from his forehead to under the collar of his shirt, but those were a rarity, something soft he hid away in self-defense. It had taken years and years of smithing until shown them to me- when he played with the tips of my hair, when we kissed, when he moaned into the joint between my ear and my neck. But back then, we circled each other, never quite sure what lie in the center.  


“It looks like it’s flawed,” Royston had pointed out somewhere in the vicinity of my ear. “The metal looks softer in spots, like it was leftover scrap.”  


“No, I don’t think so,” I’d managed to murmur back, engrossed. “It’s- look, it’s wire. That one’s gold, and I think that one’s copper, that bright bit there. Tying the city together, underneath that blackened bit of steel there- Oh. Oh, Royston, it’s-“  


He’d hauled me back, then, arm around my waist and trying to look as innocent as possible as one of the curators had stalked through the room. I’d flushed, most likely, but the curator had made their way out and we’d relaxed.  


Royston still peered at the statue. “Still not sure how I feel about it,” he’d commented lightly. “I don’t think I’ll ever quite get modern art.”  


“Oh, but it’s gorgeous, “ I’d insisted, bold enough to lean into his shoulder a little. “Completely metaphorical, bit of a political statement. I rather like it.”  


Shaking his head, he’d laughed, “You’ll have to explain it to me. Over coffee? I think that’s what you’re supposed to do after art galleries,” he quipped, eyes bright.  


I’d laughed, still a bit giddy with my sudden understanding. “No, I think that’s just you.” We’d left then, almost arm in arm but not quite, the golden light from the doorway glinting in between us.


End file.
